all he could think about was that great gatsby
by justoncieandhisgreedler
Summary: his mind was filled of memories of that summer and he wished he hadn't gone to work that day. nick/gatsby


It was half past noon, and winter had begun at last. Small specks of snow flurried it's way down through the air, sparkling in the suns rays. A thin layer of white begun to appear on the freezing ground that was over run by weeds and undercut grass. It collected on tree branches and when the branch flung itself back up because of too much weight, a small snow storm would appear for just a few seconds, snow dancing on it's way down from above.

A man sat in a over-sized chair, looking out at the cold city. His eyes remaind still and glassy as his mind ran on and on. He hadn't had a moment to think properly since Gatsby's sudden death. All that went through his head was how he could of stopped it from happening. How he could have stayed home from work just that one time. How he could have gone swimming like his friend had pleaded him to do for so long. How he could have saved the man who made him question life. But of course, the past can not be fixed.

So, Nick just sits at his desk most days, just staring at the awfully large manision where so many things had happened that summer. He never looks at the pool though, where he had saw the mans lifeless body for the first time. The stairs on which he had met Jay Gatsby on for the first time, was covered in a sickly green moss and white little specks. The lights hadn't been on in the house since that day. Nick had walked in once, but didn't bother to touch anything. He left Gatsby's bed unmade from that morning, and he left that one bathroom light on that had been accidently forgotten about in the morning rush. He didn't want to change anything, because he knew that Gatsby hated change.

The clock on the mantle that was slighly broken ticked on and on, a dull sound that made the room seem large and empty. Nick sat there, as he did everyday, mind filled with memories and questions. He tried to write everything down a while ago, just to ease of the pressure in his brain, but he couldn't describe what had happened that summer. Everything too magical, too unrealistic, too detailed to be written with ink. So he just let himself think through everything. Let himself relive what had happened.

He was a wreck. Never left his house. Never smiled. Never thought of anything but that great Gatsby. Gatsby was a mystery; a mystery that would never be solved. Nick wanted some answers, but didn't quite know where to get them. So he just sat, in his chair, looking out at the city, that used to hold so much excitment, but only held haunting memories now.

A few weeks after the first snow, a knock came at Nick's door. He didn't hear it at first, it was so light and despret, but he turned his head when the knocking became stronger. He groaned. He didn't want anyone to visit him. He had been alone for so long; he just wanted to be with his thoughts. But the knocking kept coming. Showed no sign of stopping. Nick breathed in deeply and stood up on popping and creaking legs that hadn't been used for a long time. He slowly made his way over to the door, and looked at himself in the mirror that hung on the wall beside it. His face a pale, slightly tinted green, and dark bags; as dark as the twilight sky; hung under his droopy eyelids. His lip was bitten to a raw state, and his cheeks caved in like a starving child.

He laughed at himself.

Look what Gatsby had done to him.

He averted his eyes, and reached from the door handle. Pulling it open, he had the reply of a not-so-poilte "go away" on his lips, but then was replaced with shock. He body froze up and his eyes widdened almost as big as a saucer plate. His heart beat frantically in his chest and his brain reminded him to breath. His lips trembled and his hands shook. No. No. This couldn't be right. It wasn't possible. He was just dreaming, that was it. He had stayed up too late and had fallen into this horrific dream. None of this was real.

But then the man reached out a hand, and placed on the young boy's shoulder, squeezing gently. Nick's eyes locked with the man's, and his irises asked a silent question.

Is this real? Are you real?

And the man's eyes seemed to flicker with happiness and hope and calmness.

"Hello, Old Sport."


End file.
